Chapter 3
SKYE
As soon as I hear the water running, I leave my room to find Dad so he can explain what is going on and why Miles Casey is taking a bath in our home. Shoving my unruly curls through the neck of my jumper, I make my way down the hall when a loud crack startles me, and I run to find its source.
A chunk of ceiling fell in the hall outside my library, and rain is lashing in.
My slippers smack against the stone floors as I hurry to the room where we keep supplies and haul the ladder out first, struggling with the heft of it.
Next, I cut off a bit of tarp, grab the tools, and patch up the gaping hole as best I can, my stomach dropping with every teeter from the extremely tall ladder.
It’s just my father and me taking care of the place, and seeing his large frame up on this ladder makes me more nervous than the wobbles.
So, I take a deep breath and ignore the height as I patch the leak.
What must it have been like to live in this castle in its heyday? When it felt like a luxury instead of a duty. Before it started to literally crumble into the ground? No one in my family would know.
Once the hole is fixed and the supplies put away, I make my way down to the kitchen, where my father is already bustling around humming “Ally Bally Bee.”
Putting a hand on his shoulder, I move past him to make some coffee, rain lashing the green hills outside the window.
“A hunk of roof fell down in the hall off the library upstairs.”
“Nah. Another one?”
I nod. “What’s with the movie star in the tub?”
“Pet,” my dad says apprehensively, which freezes me to my spot.
Dad is never apprehensive about anything.
He’s more the jump in headfirst and figure it out when you land kind of guy.
We have a lot in common in that way. “It’s the solution to our financial troubles.
Do you remember Mom’s friend Anita, from the States? ”
“Mom had a ton of friends from all over—”
“That she did.” Dad's smile is warm and wide. “That she did. This was the actress, with the daughter some years older than you. They were over all the time.”
We moved when I was seven. I have memories of LA but they’re all hazy, like the sun is glaring in my eyes and I can’t quite see them clearly. I remember it was warm.
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Right, well, her daughter, Natalie, reached out to me. She’s making a movie set here in the Highlands. Miles is the star. Very big movie. Nice people. She was looking for a castle… So, they’re going to film here. At Dun Loch Ness. It starts in two weeks.”
“What about the tourism board? Will they allow it?”
Dad’s neck is red. “There was a meeting the other day. Vote was unanimous. They're all on board.”
That’s how Kate knows. I can’t believe this. “You took it to a meeting before talking to me about it?”
Dad sighs. “Didn’t want to get your hopes up if they turned it down.”
“How long have you been working on this?”
He turns so I can’t see his eyes while he mutters, “A couple months.”
“Months?” I laugh, but it’s brittle. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“You can get worked up, and you’re not the biggest fan of strangers. I was worried how you’d take it.”
Not the biggest fan is putting it mildly. I agreed to the tours after many, many discussions with Dad, and look how well those turned out.
How long will they be here filming? Oh Lord. “Where are they going to sleep?”
“Pet, it’s a castle. We have more than enough room. That’s part of the problem, as you well know. They’re staying here, and they’ll be paying a pretty penny for it. Don’t worry.”
I take a deep breath to ease the tightness in my chest. Miles Casey’s going to stay here. Sipping my coffee. Eating my food. Bathing naked in my tub.
I tell myself to pull it together. It’s been over a decade since I was that teenager with a crush.
And despite my body’s reaction to the thought of being in close proximity with Miles, I don’t want to host a film production in our home.
Who knows what hours they’ll keep, with their lights and camera and action.
How will I be able to write with them here?
What if they want to shoot in my library?
“I wish you had discussed this with me before agreeing to it. They're going to turn our home into a circus. What would Mom have said?”
My father sighs, and guilt slicks my stomach. I shouldn’t have gone there.
“She would’ve understood there’s no other way to keep the lights on.”
I don’t meet Dad’s gaze, knowing full well he’s right. I would be lying if the fact that it was a Miles Casey film didn’t make it so much worse. Why him? The only person I’ve ever sent fan mail to in my entire life. And after the letter he sent back...
There has to be another way.
“Maybe they’ll bring more of their Hollywood people and shoot more movies here. It could be a significant source of income for the future, too.”
I put down my coffee and stride toward the doorway, shrugging on my jacket. My father follows me.
“It might be fun even.” Dad reaches out to brush a lock of hair out of my face.
I put on a woolly hat, trying to tame the mass of auburn curls and to show him I don’t need his help.
“New faces, fresh perspectives. You’ll see, pet.”
I bite my tongue, slip out of my fuzzy velvet slippers and into my wellies, and then I’m out the door.
My trusty yellow bike is right where I threw it in the shed.
The rain has died down, but the wind has picked up.
It rushes against my cheeks, making what so far has been a truly terrible day a little bit brighter.
Okay, not truly terrible—that’s a bit dramatic—but not great either.
On top of my father not discussing this movie plan with me, I didn’t get to write.
Not that it would’ve made any difference if I had.
Not one new idea has come to me since I submitted what I thought would be my best-selling book to my dream agent.
Finally, I had written a book I felt was worthy of publishing.
It was the one. The novel that would land a book deal, a best-seller, and a career writing something other than a detailed description of an air fryer.
Barely sixty minutes went by before the email appeared in my inbox. My heart caught in my throat as I’d opened the reply with shaking fingers then dropped into the pit of my stomach; you could almost hear the plop of it hitting acid like a bucket falling into a well.
It was a personal record for me, a rejection within an hour. I didn’t leave my bed for a week. I watched Clue and Death on the Nile (the 1978 version, because Mia Farrow) on a loop, and ate cereal from the box. Since then, the words have dried up.
A large gust of wind brings me back to the present as I lean into it and pedal harder.
I ride the same route every day unless the rain is too punishing.
Down the hill into town, usually to say hi to Margie at Thistle House and get a bit of lunch.
But right now, I need to ride off this growing sense of unease that’s settled in my chest. Or at least get a break from my father before my temper gets the best of me, and it turns into a proper fight. Check me out. I must be growing.
I can’t believe he agreed to an entire movie production without even talking to me about it first. He took it to the board, which essentially means the whole town knew before I did.
This can’t be the only solution. A bunch of Hollywood yahoos running amok all over Foyers.
Hell, probably all over Scotland. That’s not the kind of attention we want.
Save all that fame and farce for the States.
Plus, how will I get any work done? I need my book to be done in time for the manuscript contest, and I can’t write with people shining lights about and taking over my house with director’s chairs.
They’ll have to find somewhere else to film.
As I turn a corner into town, the stone and stark white buildings are as familiar as slipping on an old sweater.
Margie is outside hanging up a bird feeder, her white hair neatly pinned back in a bun. She spots me and waves. “Skye!”
I’d rather skip my chat with Margie. I love her.
She’s like an aunt to me, or maybe more a great-aunt, but I know if I stop, she’ll just want to talk about the movie.
She won’t understand why I don’t want them there.
I’ve never told anyone about the fan mail, and I’m not about to start now.
Waving, I’m about to take a right when she yells.
“Skye, where are you going? It’s Baltic out. Come in where the drinks are hot, dear!”
I sigh and arc my bike back onto the road toward Thistle House.
As I hop off, Margie says, “It looked for a second like you weren’t going to stop here.” She laughs like that’s the funniest thing she’s heard all week.
I follow her inside, inhaling deeply the smell of bangers, hash, and freshly brewed coffee.
The small stone house is much lighter inside than you would expect.
Arctic blue walls reflect slightly on the walnut floors.
The tables are a lighter wood, each with a small bouquet of thistles and bluebells on them.
Floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house overlook Loch Ness.
On the far left side is a fireplace with comfy seats, each a different floral pattern, with cross-stitched throw pillows and hand-knitted blankets, all made by loyal customers.
Family, really. The effect is cozy hodgepodge.
While I hang my coat on the coat rack by the door, Margie pours me a cup of tea, even though she knows I prefer coffee.
She insists tea is better for my health.
Fall has brought a cold mist that has settled over Foyers, especially in the mornings and the evenings, but the fire is roaring.
I sit and hold my hands to it, my fingers warming up from the ride.
“Here, hold this.” Margie hands me the mug. “Where are your gloves?”
“I forgot them.”
Margie narrows her eyes and examines my face. “What’s going on?”
Taking a sip, I hold in my cringe at the floral flavor.
Not even black tea? This is going too far.
Margie’s still searching my face for answers.
I mean to shrug, but just slump my shoulders instead.
Everything comes tumbling out as it always does when I talk to Margie.
“Dad pimped out the castle to a film crew.”
Margie takes a seat, her face lighting up like I just told her I had a great date the night before. Margie’s always trying to fix me up. Everyone’s always trying to fix me up since Finn.
“I heard a little about that. Isn’t that fun?
A film. A proper Hollywood movie. Here! It’s so exciting.
” Margie stands and runs to grab a handful of coasters, the Thistle House logo printed on each one.
“At the meeting, Callum said they were staying at yours. But put these around the house, dear. You know we have lodging here, too.”
“I wish they could all stay here, but Dad’s already promised them beds in the castle.”
Margie claps, rubbing her hands together like a cartoon villain hatching an evil plan. “Dear, this is wonderful. There might be a man your age, maybe even more than one. You’ll have your pick.”
I knew it. I knew when I told Margie, she would try to turn it into some kind of dating game, and to what end? This is not an episode of Bachelor in the Highlands. “And what, we fall madly in love and date long distance? I’m not doing that again, ever.”
“Maybe he moves here, maybe you move there. You can figure that out later.”
She knows I’ll never leave again. The castle is too big a job for one person. Plus, the last time I tried to spread my wings, look what happened. I set my offensive herbal tea down.
“Nope. No fairy tale reality TV show ending here. It’s just going to be a pain in my arse for a while. But I’ll figure out a way for the castle to make money without the interlopers. I’ll see you later, Margie. Thanks for the coffee.”
The ride back is quick and blessedly dry. Once I walk in the door back at the castle, Dad hands me the car keys, whispering, “He’s a nice bloke. They’re all good people. You’ll see.”
“Dad—”
Miles walks down the stairs. I didn’t think it was possible for him to look more ridiculous than when he was in his formal kilt attire covered in mud, until seeing him in my dad’s clothes. He is swimming in them.
My dad says, “Ah, here ye are. Skye offered to take you into Inverness to get some things.”